


Of Outtakes and Omelets

by Syrena_of_the_lake



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:54:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4205265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post-epilogue addendum to my story "The Last Test and Proof." This used to be Ch. 7 of that story, but I finally decided that story properly ends at Ch. 6, and this bit of silliness is better off on its own.</p><p>Summary: They say you can't make an omelet without breaking a few eggs. At Cair Paravel, you can't hire a new cook without breaking a fair amount of crockery. Featuring Camels, fire, and the Great Hedgehog Incident.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Outtakes and Omelets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rthstewart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthstewart/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Last Test and Proof](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3773578) by [Syrena_of_the_lake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake). 
  * Inspired by [Culinary Diplomacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3686346) by [rthstewart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rthstewart/pseuds/rthstewart). 



> "The Last Test and Proof" is very much about grief and healing. I wanted some lighter fare after all that heavy stuff, but in retrospect I shouldn't have tacked these little scenes onto the end of the larger story. So this re-post is really a re-location of a few more tales from the search for a new cook-with-a-lowercase-C.

Alarmingly, one of the first applicants was a Camel.

At least, she was assumed to be an applicant, though she never declared her intentions in so many words. Actually, when it was all over, no one could recall the Camel ever having said a word.

She appeared at the castle gate one day before dawn, and some efficient but wary soul had conducted her to the kitchens and left her to her own devices. Less than an hour later, the Camel was found in the keep, snuffling at the doorways of the Royal Residences.

"Can I help you?" asked Mr. Hoberry carefully.

The Camel's head swung up. She made a low grunting  _humph_  deep in her throat and turned her attention back to the door. It did not pass inspection, and she plodded down the hallway.

"Excuse me, madam," said Mr. Hoberry, trotting after her, "but this corridor is restricted."

The Camel paid him no heed, for the next door held all her attention. Her long lashes fluttered. She grunted and pushed her great woolly head against it. She leaned against the doorjamb and began making a most distressing noise – somewhere between keening and groaning.

Mr. Hoberry retreated in the face of her grief.

He took refuge in the empty kitchen. Beehn, who was gnawing on a chicken carcass, started guiltily. "Do I smell Camel?" he asked.

"She is outside King Peter's rooms. I thought it best to give her a moment of privacy…"

Before the Faun could finish his sentence, Beehn was out the door, a golden streak heading for the woods. It was no use, of course. When the Camel finally left King Peter's doorstep (which was now well-slobbered and a little worse for wear), she followed the Cheetahs around for days. Fooh took to hiding in the Romp, but even the Otters could not drive her away for long.

Finally – and no one dared ask how – Mrs. Furner managed to conduct the Camel back to the kitchens. The great dromedary promptly spat in the food and swayed out the door, down the road and back towards the distant sands from whence she came.

And if King Peter's much abused door now bore the marks of tearstains, no one ever remarked upon it.

* * *

"I thought his species was supposed to be afraid of fire," commented Lambert. From his vantage point in the tower, he could see the curls of flame licking out the kitchen windows below. Centaurs patiently heaved bucket after bucket of water onto and into the Kitchen while a sodden and sulky bear looked on from atop the roof, which had begun to sag alarmingly beneath him.

Briony peered down with interest. "There is a lot of smoke."

"Perhaps we shall dine on smoked tripe tonight?" Lambert's tail wagged slowly.

"I think not, my heart… Do you see? The Centaurs keep pouring water yet the fire does not die."

A shaggy Raven alit beside the wolves, shaking water droplets from his feathers in disgust. "That is because the brainless Bear started a grease fire," Sallowpad croaked. His voice was even hoarser than usual from the smoke. "Water only makes it worse."

"Shouldn't somebody tell them?" worried Briony.

Sallowpad cawed with mirth. "Oh, they know," he answered cryptically.

Lambert watched a few poorly aimed bucketfuls douse the Bear instead of the blaze, followed by a near miss with an empty bucket. At least, Lambert thought it was empty. Else, it was a  _very_  powerful toss. Which reminded him…

"I think we should hunt for our supper tonight," he declared. Contingency plans were Lambert's specialty. And, hunger aside, he did not want to be within throwing distance in the event – however unlikely – that Cook should choose today of all days to return to her kitchen.

* * *

Like many Hedgehogs, Snickfoot and Scuffnose were placid creatures most of the time, but a little excitable in high-pressure situations. It wasn't a stellar combination for the kitchen, Morgan had to admit.

Their salad was superb, and they had handled the soup admirably. The trouble had started when the prickly pair quarreled over the choice of cheese. Morgan was used to sibling rivalry – even, thanks to her time at Cair Paravel, to squabbling siblings wielding sharp implements. But even Lucy's most spirited attack in the training ring fell short by comparison… at least when collateral damage was taken into account.

Now the cheese was full of holes, and Morgan had bumped her head eight times ducking under the table. Something – possibly a Hedgehog, possible an entire wheel of cheese – rolled across the table overhead. It knocked into an earthenware jug, which fell and shattered next to her hiding place. Morgan yelped.

"The cheese is rather sharp this year," commented Aidan. He was wedged next to her, partially shielded by the butter churn. He held a single cube of cheese impaled by half a dozen quills. "If they keep going at this rate–"

"They will run out of cheese well before they run out of prickles," interrupted Morgan wearily.

"Oh."

 _Crash_.

"Mrs. Furner will not be pleased, will she?" asked Frieda timidly from inside the butter churn. (Like everything else in Cook's kitchen, the churn was very large.)

"Mrs. Furner has thicker skin than we do, buttercup!" Aidan laughed. He used a short quill to pin the torn hem of Morgan's dress. "Chin up."

"But head down," cautioned Morgan.

The butter churn quivered with laughter.

Above them, the Hedgehogs rolled and argued and gamboled and scuffled up and down the length of the table. Morgan sat back with a sigh, wistfully imagining the perfect confluence of angles it would take for both Hedgehogs to get their prickles stuck between wooden planks – preferably on opposite sides of the table. The odds were depressingly slim.

"Pokeberry?" offered Aidan, proffering a neatly speared fruit on a single quill.

Morgan popped it in her mouth, placing the quill carefully aside. "Frieda, please take a note: We regretfully inform our Friends the Hedgehogs that, due to a close familial relationship with our Physician and a desire to avoid all appearances of favoritism, their application for post of cook is hereby most respectfully declined."


End file.
